


Fit For A King

by jad



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Public Display of Affection, Romance, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/pseuds/jad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur just can't wait to be king. (YES, I WENT THERE)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit For A King

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** microscopic end-of-s2 spoiler, oral, D/s undertones, dirty talk, flangst, fingering, PDA, come play, semi-public, GENERAL NAUGHTINESS, Merlin!collarbone fetish, onhisknees!Arthur (I DUNNO ABOUT YOU, BUT IT'S A KINK FOR ME).
> 
> This is for lettered@lj \o/ because I was pondering our mutual COLLARBONE FETISH (and anyone else that shares the MCK, otherwise known as the Merlin Collarbone Kink, WHICH SHOULD BE ALL OF YOU :D) and this is what my brain vomited out. I think this is a record for the most words I've ever put toward a single blowjob. Also, does anyone else notice that the warnings/kinks are the longest bit of the header? HOW DIRTY THIS FANDOM HAS MADE ME. 
> 
> Thanks again to scabbyfish@lj for spending her valuable time making this presentable. Not like it isn't ALL HER FAULT ANYWAY.

_Fit For A King_

oOo

Everything is damp and sticky, and now Merlin has a wet spot on his backside.

It's these stupid trousers, he knows—not that they're badly made, but he's had them for years now, and the thick fabric is wearing thin from long hours spent on horseback, following Arthur from one side of his bloody kingdom to the other.

He's sat himself on a conveniently flat rock by the fire, one with a thick cushion of moss, the cause of the dampness he now feels against his arse. It's not cold, though; spring is quickly maturing into a hot summer, and the humidity is suffocating. What little skin is visible on the party of knights, their necks and cheeks and foreheads, glistens with sweat. At least, Merlin thinks, he's not wearing his own bodyweight in armour.

They've stopped in the shadow of the woods for a midday break, the knights hungry and the horses thirsty and tired. They haven't been on patrol long, only a few days, a preventative force against bandits that favour the southern border of the kingdom this time of year.

Across the fire, Arthur catches his eye. He's been eyeing Merlin for a while now; Merlin knows, because he's been trying to avoid his gaze. With a meaningful look, Arthur gives a swift, barely-noticeable jerk of his head to the right—Merlin looks, and sees that the little thicket of trees parts off to the right of the camp, forming a natural path in the earth that dips down and out of sight.

Merlin wishes he'd found something to occupy him, wishes that Arthur could contain himself—they'll be back in Camelot tomorrow night, safe behind the barred doors of his chambers, hidden from prying eyes. Not for the first time, Merlin wonders if Arthur gets some sort of thrill out of this, doing these things where anyone could stumble across them; it's not as if the crown prince can simply vanish from the patrol for any length of time without someone noticing, wondering, worrying,  _hey, where's the Prince?_

Merlin goes, anyway. If he doesn't, he knows Arthur will go first and then  _shout for him_ , making it even more obvious where they are going if anyone decides to come and look for them. He makes it about thirty paces from the camp, protected from view by the thinly clustered trees, before he feels a grip on his forearm and is yanked off to the side, back slamming against the trunk of a tree that's barely wider than he is.

"Must you?" he demands, trying to hide the rush of blood to his face with a pointed roll of his eyes.

He tries to sound displeased, but knows Arthur recognises his tone of voice; this excitement, this  _rush,_  is mutual, if for very different reasons, and Arthur grins wickedly at him, pressing into him, the coarse layer of his chainmail just as rough and uncomfortable as the bark against Merlin's back.

It's been too long— _it's only been three days_ , his mind tries to remind him—for both of them, really, and the patrol has been dull. There's been no sign of any bandits for Arthur to work out some tension on so now it's come to this, Merlin with his shoulder blades digging into a tree and Arthur's hands sliding around his hips, one cupping his backside and the other wriggling inside his tunic to lie flat against the small of his back. It rests there, rubbing in slow, torturous circles, pressure increasing with every squeeze of the hand on his arse.

"Hell," Merlin manages.

Arthur grins at him again, eyes bright under the shadow of his fringe, the tip of his nose catching Merlin's lips as he moves in to kiss him.

Merlin is beyond fighting this, never really had a chance, because this is  _Arthur_  and while Merlin is probably the only person in the kingdom to ever deny him what he wants, to fight him at every turn, nobody— _nobody—_ gets Arthur like this. It's terribly selfish and Merlin doesn't give a damn, because he's so tired of giving and giving and getting no thanks, no recognition, nothing except mere tolerance and a handful of insults.

 _This_ , Arthur recognises. This he rewards, in so many ways, in the hidden looks and the knowing smiles and the brush of fingertips when no one is looking.

This, Merlin thinks,  _this_  is his and his alone.

And then Arthur's moving, lips kissing a trail along the line of his jaw, hands coming up to fumble with his neckerchief. Before Merlin can ask just what it is he thinks he's doing, Arthur loosens the knot and brings it up—Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but on reflection this is probably what Arthur was counting on, as he takes the opportunity to shove the fabric in his mouth.

Arthur re-tightens the knot before Merlin can spit it out, drawing the linen between his teeth, pulling back tight across his cheeks. Merlin glares at him and begins to mount a muffled protest but Arthur places a single finger to his lips and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Merlin listens, and then gets it; they're still close to camp, close enough to hear the indistinct murmur of the resting knights' conversation, the restless shuffle of the horses. Too close to be careless.

"Can't have your wailing spoil the moment," Arthur says, grinning widely at the look Merlin gives him.

Which is why we should wait, he wants to say. Arthur delights in reminding him at every opportunity that he's not exactly quiet—but Merlin knows he also gets off on it. He might be destined to be a fair and just king, and so far he's been an impressively fair and just prince, but he's still a spoilt brat of two and twenty, which means he's also a bully. He likes to push until he gets a reaction, any reaction; Merlin has always given him that, and this has not stopped since Merlin began sharing his bed.

Merlin stops attempting any sort of protest altogether as Arthur's mouth finds his neck again, now naked and exposed, allowing him to explore. He's still in full armour and his gardbrace is knocking against Merlin's chin, and Merlin can find nothing but metal to hold on to; instead, he tilts his head back to expose his throat and grips at the peeling bark beneath his hands.

Arthur is heavy and practically crushing him against the trunk, hands rising to the front of Merlin's tunic. He's taken off his gauntlets and gloves, at least, naked fingers tickling the skin of Merlin's chest as he pulls at the fabric, forcing the unlaced front as far open as it will go without ripping.

And then there are  _teeth_  on his collarbone, unforgiving teeth, leaving stinging red trails on his skin. Arthur likes to mark him here, just out of sight—just low enough to be lost beneath the fabric of his kerchief and his tunic, but high enough that if Merlin shifts and glances down amidst the boredom of a day-long ride, he can see them, see them and remember,  _Arthur put those there_.

Arthur is muttering now, voice hoarse, lips and teeth snapping at Merlin's skin as he moves, up and down his neck, about all the things he's going to do to Merlin the minute they're inside the castle walls. About how he knows Merlin loves it when he shoves him up against a wall and stands behind him, teeth biting into his shoulder, Merlin's back arched sharply to get the angle  _just right_ , his fingers clawing at the stone so hard they come away raw and bruised. How he loves to fuck that hot mouth that spends all day talking back, those fucking lips, loves how Merlin moans around his cock when he fists his hands in his hair and  _pulls_.

Merlin makes a sound that's caught and muffled by his gag and brings an arm back up—grasping the wrist of the hand Arthur has against his trousers, palming his erection through the fabric, slipping awkwardly up his armoured shoulder into the hair at the back of his head, clawing.  _Pleading_.

He feels the curve of Arthur's lips against the junction of his ear and jaw, slow and teasing. "Want me to take that off?" he breathes. His fingers form a tight channel around Merlin's cock where it strains against his trousers, tracing its shape, his thumb rubbing circles just under the head. "Want me to let them all hear you, begging for it?"

Merlin has no response for this aside from a frustrated groan; it doesn't matter, he's beyond coherency at this point. He just wishes that Arthur would bloody well get  _on_  with it, because someone is bound to come looking for him soon.

But that's the point, isn't it, that they could be caught at any moment—Merlin gagged and trapped up against a tree, flushed and keening, rutting desperately into Arthur's hand, helpless to do anything but submit, beyond any sort of shame because he would sacrifice every ounce of pride he has to keep  _this_.

Arthur's unoccupied hand shifts from where it has been resting against the tree above Merlin's shoulder, moving over his neck and to his chest, taking its time, lingering over a nipple, pinching it harshly through the fabric in time with a measured squeeze of his cock. Merlin hisses through his nose, head dropping forward, knocking against Arthur's own bowed head.

Arthur chuckles, taking the hint. "Pushy brat," he mutters, lips brushing Merlin's jaw. "You should show a little more respect,  _Mer_ lin. I don't kneel for just anyone, you know."

Then he's gone, dropping down out of Merlin's field of vision, and Merlin rests his head back against the tree,  _finally_ , the hand in Arthur's hair trailing down until it's resting along the side of his face, cradling, asking,  _demanding_ , as Arthur wrestles his trousers open.

Finally freed, his cock springs out enthusiastically, bumping Arthur in the jaw, already swollen and dark pink. The humid air around them is thick with the musky scent of what they are doing, and Merlin wonders a bit wildly how long it will linger, if some unlucky knight wanders back here before they set off to relieve himself, if he would have  _any idea..._

Arthur is pulling on him now, lightly, teasing, fingers loose and still except for the slow movement of his wrist. He's angling Merlin's cock up as he strokes, breath ghosting down the shaft as he buries his nose at the base, lips and tongue lapping wetly against his balls. Merlin bites down on the makeshift gag, grunting, hips pressing into the touch. Arthur places his free hand flat against Merlin's hip and forces him back, holding him there, while Merlin holds onto his hair and the tree for dear life.

"Shh," Arthur breathes, his nose rubbing against the underside of Merlin's cock, lips following, sucking, kissing, licking a trail to the head, tongue curling under the tip. He places a kiss there, lingering, and his eyes flicker upwards, and Merlin wants to hold that image frozen in his memory  _forever_ because—red lips, wet and swollen, cheeks flushed a delicious pink, eyes so blue it's amazing it isn't magic—Arthur is without a doubt the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen.

There's a rustle in the thicket, not far away, closer than the contented murmur of the camp, and Merlin freezes. Arthur hears it too, head cocking at the noise, but his mouth opens with a feral grin, and he takes the head of Merlin's cock in his mouth, unbelievably hot and slick, the tip of his tongue pressing into the slit.

"Oh, God," Merlin chokes, or at least tries to. It sounds more like a sob. It probably is, he thinks, because now Arthur's moving, mouth going slowly, too slowly, his tongue flat and thick along the underside of the shaft as he takes Merlin in his mouth. Arthur's nose is buried briefly in the dark curls at the base before he hollows his cheeks and pulls back, taking any hope of logical thought with him.

His hand moves from Merlin's hip to tug at his trousers where they still sit, open, at his waist. With a sharp tug that Merlin hopes isn't a tear, Arthur manages to pull them down his thighs, to just below his balls; the humid air prickles at Merlin's backside.

Both of Arthur's hands fumble in the darkness between his legs for a moment and Merlin thinks,  _ah_ , soon their roles will be reversed—but then Arthur's hands come up again, his right wrist free of its vambrace. With his left hand he nudges Merlin's legs apart, as far as his trousers will allow. He pulls off Merlin's cock long enough to slip a finger into his mouth and then the hand is gone, between his legs, the chainmail on his arm rough against the inside of Merlin's thighs.

 _Sweet Mercy_ , Merlin thinks, bucking slightly, the sharp edges of the links catching on the delicate skin there. He presses against the waistband of his trousers where it rests around the tops of his knees, spreading his legs as far as he possibly can—and then Arthur's finger finds what it's looking for, circling in time with the tongue on the head of his cock, and Merlin forgets about the cold sharpness of the chainmail altogether.

It's terrible, what Arthur's doing to him, hips simultaneously trying to press back and thrust forward, and Arthur takes him in his mouth again as he presses a finger inside, sucking hard in time with the movement; the rush of pleasure and the tight burn tear Merlin in half. He doesn't get a moment to recover before Arthur presses a second finger in, and Merlin knows now that even Arthur is getting impatient—he fucks him with his fingers, mouth sliding down the side of his cock, lips wet and open, teeth teasing.

Arthur takes Merlin's cock in his other hand, thumb pressed right under the head, rubbing in agonisingly slow circles while he sucks his way down the underside, just as he curls the fingers inside, God, yes,  _right there_ , and Merlin yelps deep in his throat, head snapping back against the tree so hard it leaves him blinking away black spots.

Those hellish fingers continue to fuck him, curled, brushing that same spot over and over, while Arthur's mouth worships his cock, slicking him with wet heat and then changing sides, letting the humid air prickle in his wake, cool against the hot flesh.

When the tight coil of pleasure begins to tighten deep in his groin, when he can't think for the fire raging in his head, Merlin reaches up to yank the gag from his mouth, and by the sudden change in pace, he knows Arthur understands; he's dragged it out as long as either of them would ever dare, and he stills his mouth against Merlin's cock, tongue lapping lightly just under the head, fingers still curled and caressing inside of him. He glances upward, catching Merlin's gaze, and that's all it takes. Merlin bites down on his tongue, grunting, the hot metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth as he rides out his orgasm.

When the world stops spinning, Merlin opens his eyes fully; Arthur's still on his knees, the tip of Merlin's cock balanced on his chin, and his face—hell, did  _he_  do that?—Merlin reaches out, knuckles brushing the edge of his prince's jaw, thumb smearing the mess leaking out of the corner of his mouth across his lips, his chin, against his cheek.

Arthur opens his mouth, sucking gently on his fingertip before mouthing the head of his cock one last time, lovingly, licking it clean, leaning in to nuzzle the joint of Merlin's hip as he pulls his trousers back up. When Arthur stands Merlin jerks forward and kisses him, so hard that Arthur staggers back a step before catching himself. He tastes himself in Arthur's mouth.

He pulls back, both of them breathless, gasping, and Merlin whispers the words against Arthur's lips, not thinking, not  _remembering_  who he is, that this—whatever this is—can't last. That Arthur has time for him now because he's only—only,  _right_ —a prince, but someday he will be a king and there will be little room for Merlin in that future; that Merlin's just taking what he can get because he really is an idiot, not stopping this before it went too far when he knew, inevitably, that it could never last.

Arthur pulls back, head still at a slight angle, and stares at him. Merlin sucks in a shaky breath, shuddering against the sudden chill he feels. He expects Arthur will walk away now, and that will be the end of it. That this—this was it, because Arthur is a lot of things but he puts duty above everything, even his own happiness, and Merlin's happiness doesn't come into it at all because Merlin is  _just a bloody servant_.

Merlin can't wait for it. He can't, because if—if Arthur just walks away, then Merlin will sit down and never find the will to follow him, so Merlin steps back and turns away, walking quickly back towards camp. There's a few moments of quiet behind him before he hears the clink of armour, the heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

"Merlin,  _wait_."

Merlin shakes his head, doesn't turn around. Can't bear to listen, can't let Arthur give him  _the talk_ , the one where he tells Merlin all the things Merlin already knows, knows  _and hates_.

A hand catches his elbow and halts him, not ten feet from the edge of camp. He can see the nearest cluster of knights clearly now, chatting over a dying fire, the remnants of their midday meal still in their hands.

Arthur doesn't turn him around but comes up alongside him, and opens his mouth to speak.

"Please," Merlin interrupts, closing his eyes, head bowed. "Not now, not— _here_."

He spits the word, hoping Arthur will take the hint, will realise that Merlin already  _knows_  but still can't bear to hear it aloud now, not when they still have a day and a half of country to cover before he can lock himself in the safety of his room, hiding this in the back of Gaius' quarters. It's not that he's worried Arthur will be cruel. Arthur is a bully and arrogant as hell, but he isn't cruel, not really, and even then never when it counts. All of his rough treatment and dirty talk aside, he's actually uncharacteristically tender when they're alone together, sometimes too cuddly even for Merlin's tastes. He just knows he can't hold it together for another day and a half, listening to Arthur joking with his knights, all cheeky smiles and bright eyes, not if Arthur's going to do this  _now_.

There's a hand on his face and Merlin starts, eyes flying open—they're well in view of the camp, if anyone decides to look. His hand still smells pungently of sex and Merlin inhales deeply without really thinking about it.

Arthur is giving him a look, that same calculating look he gave him when he told Merlin he'd seen him in the forest with the Dragonlord, told him that  _no man is worth your tears_.

"You're worrying about nothing," Arthur tells him simply, the pad of his thumb lingering against the corner of Merlin's mouth.

"But," Merlin begins, "when you're..."

He leaves the words hanging. Arthur gives him a funny look, the corner of his mouth twisting upward slightly. "When," Arthur repeats, "has nothing to do with it." Then, not unkindly, "Idiot."

Merlin follows him back the few yards to camp, tension dissipating with every step; they must not have been gone as long as Merlin thought, because no one even looks up until Arthur is in their midst and starts ordering them to pack it up,  _time to go, you lazy_ _sods._

He's on Arthur's heels, heading straight for the horses, when Arthur says over his shoulder, "You know what'll be the best thing about being king, though?"

Merlin slams to a halt as Arthur stops and abruptly turns around, actually having to reach out a hand to Arthur's chest to keep from bowling over.

Arthur, who normally would toss him off, let him fall in front of his men for being clumsy, ignores it. Instead he leans in, his breath ghosting over Merlin's lips as he says, "I'll be able to do  _whatever_   _the hell I want_."

The prince closes the final distance and kisses him, all lips and teeth, head tilted just enough to fit their mouths together.

Quiet descends around them; even the birds shut up, which, Merlin thinks, is pretty impressive. He's closed his eyes, so he can't see who's gaping, who's scowling, who's pretending not to look, or who's rolling their eyes as if to say,  _about time_. 

Nobody says a word, however, even when Arthur lingers a moment, pulling back slowly at first, drawing Merlin's bottom lip out between his own as he goes.

"We'll need to cross the river by sundown if we want to be in time for the Lady Morgana's birthday feast tomorrow," he reminds them, smirking and looking around at the knights as if he hasn't just snogged his manservant in full view of his company. "And  _none_ of you want to disappoint the Lady Morgana,  _do you_ , because you do not want to know what I will do to you if I have to listen to her harp."

There's a rather dazed scramble of armour and horses as the knights go about mounting up and preparing to leave. Arthur turns back to Merlin, who wishes he wouldn't, because he is sure his face is pretty much the same shade as Arthur's cloak.

Arthur tilts his head up with two gloved fingers under his chin, exposing his throat, God, where is his neckerchief, he must look like he's been mauled by a  _bear—_ and then Arthur slips the familiar fabric in place, tying it carefully, taking his time. The knights are riding off without them, taking Arthur's threat to heart, and probably eager to discuss their new, dirty little piece of gossip.

They're worse than chambermaids, those knights. Bloody noble prats, the lot of them.

When Arthur finishes and steps back, Merlin remembers to breathe. Arthur is smiling at him, the smile he wears when he's just made a fantastic kill or they've somehow stumbled out of the jaws of death  _again_  and things are funny once more.

"Stop looking so depressed," Arthur orders. "You'd think you were the one who got left wanting, the way you're moping."

Merlin opens his mouth and then pauses, remembering very suddenly that when he'd stormed off, they hadn't yet—well, how was he supposed to remember, with all that bloody armour on? "It would have taken  _hours_ ," he says, recovering enough to scowl. "And d'you have any idea how hard it's going to be to clean that chainmail as it is, without adding to it?"

Arthur laughs at that, loud and clear, the sound cutting through the distant noises of the company moving ahead of them. "Right. Later, then," he says, snorting, turning around to mount his horse. "And you call  _me_  selfish."

Who wouldn't be, really, Merlin wants to say. Instead, he mounts his horse and follows, worrying about what they'll do when the worst happens, when the world as they know it is coming crashing down around them, what might lie in wait in the broken, crystallised images of the future. When they suffer through it all, when Arthur is crowned king and when magic is returned to the land, when...

Merlin shakes his head, giving his horse a sharp nudge with his heels, dashing past Arthur even as the prince shouts, surprised, annoyed, revelling in the challenge as Merlin, grinning like an idiot, races him to catch up to the group.

He doesn't need to worry about it, he remembers, because when has nothing to do with it.

o  _fin_ o


End file.
